“No.”

“Right, well… that’s… perfect! I’ve set up a flight for you to come out here in two weeks’ time. I’ll pick you up from the airport. I’ll get you an apartment—”

“Don’t bother.”

“Don’t bother?” Vin questioned slowly.

“I’ve got somewhere to stay.”

“In Seattle?”

“Yeah.”

“Where? With who?”

“Don’t concern you,” I said coldly. I felt a hand tap on my back. I turned and nodded at the guy behind me and turned back to speak into the phone. “I gotta go.”

“Right. Well, I guess I’ll see you in two weeks. But if you need anything, if your ‘place’ doesn’t work out, call me.”

I paused, closed my eyes, and tapped my hand twice on the chipped painted wall before me.

“Got it.”

Immediately hanging up the phone, dread ripping the shit out of my stomach, I headed down a dark quiet hallway. Raking my long hair out of my face, my nails then scratched down the heavy dark stubble on my face.

Two weeks...

In two weeks, I’d be in Seattle, ready for the next part of my life to begin, but not before having to face a truckload of unresolved shit from my past…

Chapter One

Ally

New York City

Running across the road, I dodged people left and right in my rush to get to my interview on time. The New York weather was humid and sweltering. I was so happy I’d tied my long hair back in a bun.

Gripping tightly onto my purse, I jogged along the sidewalk, frantically checking my watch. My plane had been delayed and getting ready in a Boeing 737’s tiny bathroom cubicle wasn’t exactly ideal for presenting flawless makeup and hair.

But it was worth it. This was all for the exhibition of my dreams. I intended to nail this interview. There was no choice. I would do anything to curate this show… even fly to the East Coast last minute from California to land it... even leave my beautiful newly-curated Contemporary Art gallery at UCLA in the hands of the Art Director.

Finally reaching the front of the Met, I ran up the stairs in my favorite black Louboutins, straightening out my black sleeveless dress as I reached the top.

Pausing, I inhaled through my nose, and with a slow exhale from my mouth, pulled back my shoulders and walked into the entrance.

In minutes I was whisked away to the private offices by the museum director’s assistant and told to wait in a small room dominated by a large wooden table and six chairs. Artwork, from up and coming artists, was hung without rhyme or reason on the white walls. I slumped into a chair, nervously playing with my hands.

Hearing footsteps outside the room, I forced myself to relax and straightened up just as an older man walked into the room.

Vin Galanti. The famous sculptor himself.

Vin was dressed all in tweed, his gray hair a fluffy halo enveloping his head. He looked every inch the eccentric artist.

His light blue eyes met mine and a wide smile spread across his face. “Ms. Lucia!” he greeted. I rose from my seat to take his has outstretched hand.

“Mr. Galanti! It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve studied your work in great depth.”

Mr. Galanti gestured for me to sit. He sat opposite me. “Please, call me Vin. And I’m very happy to meet you too, Ms. Lucia. I was honored to see the Contemporary Art show you curated in Toronto last year and I was extremely impressed.”

“Thank you, Vin,” I said in reply, genuinely taken aback by the compliment.

“No, thank you. It is truly an honor to meet someone so young who is so passionate about art.”

“I am, sir,” I said happily, “It’s the center of my entire life.”

Vin sat forward like an excited child. I had to stop myself from laughing at the grin on his face. “So,” he said conspiratorially, “Elpidio...”

“Yes,” I croaked, my voice barely audible. The mere thought of curating his work made me feel weak at the knees.

“At last I’m commissioning his first show and I am looking for the right curator to put it all together.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you believe this could be you?”

“Yes, sir,” I retorted with confidence. “As soon as I heard about the position, I dropped everything to fly out here to meet you. I know I’m the best person for this job. I’ve studied his work. I’ve written academic journals on his methods and on his themes. I’ve written articles on his rise to fame.”

Vin sat back, clasped his hands and nodded his head. He seemed to have lost his enthusiasm. My stomach rolled. I wanted this position so, so much.

“I’ve read your articles and journals, Ms. Lucia,” he said. I waited for him to say more. “You’re an exceptional art scholar and you clearly have a passion for my protégé.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “He’s one of my favorite contemporary sculptors.” I paused at what I’d just said and lowered my eyes to inspect the wooden table. “No, excuse me,” I said nervously, “Elpidio is my absolute favorite contemporary artist, period.”

Vin’s head tilted to the side. “Why?” Vin’s eyes had lit up with interest.

“Why…” I whispered, contemplating how I could express my love for his work in words. I took in a long breath, thinking through my answer, and opted to speak from the heart. I closed my eyes picturing his sculptures and let my words flow.